


...Two Bits

by Morgan



Series: Grace Under Fire [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How the hell did they get here? It goes something like this: Sam has a hands-on approach to life. Sam owns a straight razor so deadly sharp it could probably cut light particles in half. Sam is persuasive. Sam has really good hands. Sam can suck like a hover and pretty much render Dean useless and way too acquiescent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	...Two Bits

Dean’s questioning his survival instinct. No, seriously.

-Don’t move, Sam says silky and drawn-out and Dean really isn’t.

Right now he’s hardly even breathing.

-Oh, trust me, I’m not moving.  
-I don’t know. You seem kinda twitchy, Sam says and there’s a dark layer of amusement over the gallon of sweet sin in his voice.

How the hell did they get here?

It goes something like this: Sam has a hands-on approach to life. Sam owns a straight razor so deadly sharp it could probably cut light particles in half. Sam is persuasive. Sam has really good hands. Sam can suck like a hover and pretty much render Dean useless and way too acquiescent.

And Dean’s survival instinct is kind of stunted when it comes to his brother.

Sam’s hands are careful and perfectly steady, for which Dean is eternally grateful. And he’s kneeling at Dean’s feet, which is nice. Dean’s ass is resting against the sink behind him and he’s got the edges of the thing in a death’s grip. That thing he said about not moving? He’s really not moving. As in, he’s staying so fucking still it’s making his muscles cramp up a little. There’s a scrape-scrape, tap-tap noise. That’s Sam running the razor over his skin and then rinsing it out. Sam’s got a towel to wipe it on. He keeps his blade nice and clean and dry.

-It takes about a hundred shaves to get good at this, Sam says conversationally, but still in that rumbled purr of a tone.

-Yeah? Dean breathes out.

Sam’s really fucking good with blades. Always has been. There’s something about that, the way a knife just sits right in Sam’s hand, that Dean is more than a little thankful for right now.

-You have to angle the blade about twenty degrees. And you need to make at least three passes to get real smooth. For each pass you want to start with a short stroke and finish with a longer one. Make sure you get in real close.  
-You get in any closer…  
-First you go with the grain, Sam continues, completely unperturbed, talking over Dean. “Then you go sideways to the grain and then you make the final pass against the grain.”

Sam’s demonstrating as he talks and with the last scrape Dean’s breath rushes out of him. Dean has good control. He’s fucking stellar at control, which is a really good thing right now, because not only is his survival instinct a little off target with Sam, but even worse, his dick sure as fuck doesn’t know what’s good for it. Story of Dean’s life, really.

-A straight razor is a fine-tuned tool. You have to practise to get good at using it, Sam continues.  
-Yeah, uh-hu.

Dean’s not moving, but he’s been rising to the occasion since Sam started lathering him up with a badger brush, Jesus.

-You have to care for it. Hone it.

Sam’s still talking about the blade and he’s not looking at Dean’s face, which is why he never sees Dean biting his lower lip. Dean’s never been in to this, the whole grooming thing. Sam is, though. Sam is a lot less vanilla than he lets on, not that it surprises Dean at all considering what the default setting here is, but even so, he’s still wondering how the hell he got himself into this particular situation.

Sam has shaved Dean before, when he’s been too banged up to do it himself and started looking too much like a hobo, or even longer ago, when Sam was learning. Back then it was actually very much a big brother/little brother thing, Dean letting Sam use a regular safety razor on him.

Then there had been this one time when Dean was nineteen and had a dislocated shoulder and a burnt hand that made it really fucking hard for him to shave himself. Sam had offered to help and then stood between Dean’s splayed out legs as Dean sat on the sink and let Sam move his head this way and that with soft touches while he meticulously shaved Dean with so much gentle care that it sort of took Dean’s breath away. Herald and precursor to this, probably.

Trust Sam to pick this, now, out of all things. Modern razors, Sam had explained, are efficient and don’t really require all that much skill. For Sam, there’s no satisfaction in that, in using a tool that doesn’t require any expertise or paraphernalia. Most mornings, hell, most weeks, they don’t have the time for anything fancy, but if they have time Sam will break out all his stuff and go slow.

Honing is where it all starts. Sharpening a razor is different from honing any other kind of blade. Sam’s explained all this lovingly to Dean while demonstrating. The basic principle is that the blade must be gently laid flat on the stone and moved with the edge foremost and not using too much pressure. The less pressure, the sharper the edge. “Dull tools are frustrating”, Sam’s told him. “And frustration is no fun.”

Which means Sam has a lot of fun, because, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Sam’s knives are always sharp as all get out. Dean would probably be in a position to find a more eloquent way of expressing that if Sam wasn’t currently running the back of the razor blade over hypersensitive newly bared skin.

-Breathe, Sam tells him, treacle dark and amused.  
-Shut up, Dean answers, but it comes out way too winded and that’s because he hasn’t taken a breath for maybe a minute now, so Sam has a point.

Sam smiles, expels a hot, wet lungful of air right over the top of one of Dean’s thighs and then gets right back to it.

-You know, steel is a ductile metal, Sam tells him. “When you stroke the hone you not only abrade it, but you work some of it to thin fin that extends beyond the point where the plane surfaces should theoretically meet at an infinitesimal edge. You take it that far and you’ve overextended. It will bend and break easy, giving you a rough edge. It’s called a wire edge.”

Sam drags the blade across the skin closest to the crease of Dean’s upper thigh and he’s hanging on to a rough edge himself, not moving, not talking and certainly not thinking about how close to Dean’s femoral artery Sam is working. He’d have to get in really deep, but still. Dean would be unconscious in a minute and dead in under three. That really shouldn’t make his dick twitch. But it does.

It’s that kind of thing that makes Dean so annoyed with himself sometimes. Arterial bleeding is life threatening and really hard to control. You can’t tourniquet something like that. Even if you did you could still clot up die from that instead. Sam makes another of those sweet humming noises and Dean figures he doesn’t really care. Sammy’s a good boy. He knows what he’s doing.

-Go gently, go slowly… and don’t go too far, Sam says and Dean knows he’s talking out the theory of sharpening his razor, but still.  
-Little late for that, Dean tells him.

Sam lifts the blade before he looks up and smiles. It’s not the smile, even though it’s a gorgeous thing, that reassures Dean. It’s the fact that Sam won’t leave the blade against his skin for even the glimmer of a second his attention isn’t on it.

Sam made Dean take a shower before they started, all hot water and the silk slide of soap, Sam’s hands all over him. The bathroom is still kind of muggy from that and Sam shut the door behind them, and locked it. They’re as safe as they’re ever likely to get. Dean knows why. It’s all about him, actually. It’s not that Dean doesn’t know how to relax, it’s just that he’s naked. Wet. Unarmed. He’s got Sam there with a blade, but that’s not the same as him having a weapon himself and Sam probably meant this to be one of those things that slowed everything down for them for a while. Sam’s smart as hell, Dean’s aware of that.

It takes a lot for him to give himself over. Let Sam do this. This is … well. This is dangerous. It’s also really, really good. Dean’s self-aware enough to know how fucked up and twisted that is, but that’s not going to make him lose any sleep. While Sam’s attention is on him and he’s still towelling off the blade Dean unclasps one hand and runs his fingers through Sam’s still damp hair.

Sam tilts into the touch making a pleased, surprised noise. His eyes find Dean’s again and, Jesus. There’s so much there. So many things that Dean can’t really begin to sort them out. Lust. Contentment. The darker things that have way too much to do with Sam having all this tenuous power of him right now. The deeper things that have to do with the history between them. Love. Yeah, that last one too, because this is sort of pretty typical of how they love each other, without constraint and a little bit dangerous and a lot unhinged when it comes to what they’re both capable of. And still there’s all this weird tender care and reliance.

-You know you’re going to blow me when you’re done, right? Dean asks.

Sam’s smile shades down darker and filthier and his eyes get slitted and hot.

-Are you kidding me? Sam asks. “Been wanting to do that since you agreed.”

Dean breathes out slow and he wants so bad to just … lean down and grab Sam by the biceps, pull him up and kiss the ever loving light out of him. But Sam must see that because he refocuses and puts his hand on Dean’s hip to make him pay attention.

-Now, let me finish, Sam says with another smile in his voice that Dean can’t see even if he sure can hear it.

The damp air keeps the lather soft. That’s a good thing too. Sam’s already re-lathered a couple of times, which, yeah. It’s nice. It’s really, really nice when he works the brush in small circular movements.

-The best part is when you put the blade to skin and get to work, Sam says, his voice down to a low murmur now.

There’s a deep quiet after that while Sam slowly finishes. Dean’s stance is wide and relaxed, even if his heart is beating in that slow, dull bass way that means he’s already more than a little turned on. It’s not like that’s a secret. He can hide that even less than normal right now.

Sam puts all his attention and care into the last finishing scrapes and touches and Dean takes to staring unfocused straight at the fine craquelure of the paint on the bathroom door. He’s breathing in time with Sam, feeling Sam’s exhalations against his skin. It’s maddeningly slow, the whole thing, but that’s sort of the point.

Sam doesn’t nick him. Not even once. When he’s done he pats Dean down with a cold wet towel and checks and rechecks the skin several times to see if he’s done any damage, even when they both know he hasn’t. Dean’s weak at the knees by now and Sam’s flushed.

Sam’s got this aftershave called Spanish Leather that Dean really likes, but that’s not for this. That’s for the mornings when Dean lets Sam shave his face, standing between his knees while Dean sits on the counter and tips his head back to bare his throat.

Dean’s kind of intrigued to see what the next thing here is going to be. He shouldn’t really be surprised that Sam comes up with sweet almond oil from his shaving kit bag.

-Awh, Jesus, you’re killing me, Dean tells him when Sam slicks up his hands and then runs them all over Dean’s naked responsive skin.

He’s hard as a steel rod and everything is that much more intense like this, shaved bare and every nerve end already lit up from the touching and the soap and the brushes and the blade and Sam’s hands. The soft wet slide of oil on top of that makes Dean have to grab on to the sink again so hard his knuckles are turning white. His eyes stay open, though, all the way.

Sam’s been kneeling on a comforter he took from one of the beds that he’s folded down to a thick square. He looks perfectly happy there, knees planted with some space between them and Dean knows why he likes this, knows that it’s a hell of a trip for Sam too. It’s not just about the trust and the slow pace and the fact that he’s literally got Dean in the palms of his hands.

It’s all the inversions of things that get to Sam, because that big, beautiful brain of his is such an interesting place.

-You’re good at that, Dean tells him.

Should be embarrassing, but it’s really not. Sam moans when he hears it, and Dean’s actually kind of pleased that he’s got enough insight into that winding brain to know where all this comes together.

-Do you like it? Sam asks.

Dean’s not sure, really. He feels to raw, too naked, shaved clean like this, like a young boy. Sam’s hands on him are about ten times as intense as normal, though, and he can’t not like that. He’s just worried this is going to be distracting later. Like, the next time he shaves. Or showers. Or tries to put clothes on. Or has to watch Sam sharpen his knives. Oh, Christ. They’ve opened up a whole new box of stuff with this one.

-Yeah, I like it, Dean says. “You going to put your mouth on me?”

Sam looks up again, looks away from what he’s doing, but his hands are a different kind of tool so he doesn’t take them off Dean’s skin, which is a good thing. His eyes are lustdark and so aware. He knows what he’s done. He knows all about that new box of tricks, might have been ahead of Dean on this. Must have been judging from the slight smile he gives before tugging his own towel off.

-You’re not going to last, Sam says just before leaning forward and sliding his lips down Dean’s lower abdomen and over his indecently bare and slick skin.

It’s excruciating.

Sam’s beautifully hard too. Probably has been the whole time, using his own version of righteous control to do all this right and not hurt Dean.

-No. I’m really not, Dean tells him and threads a hand through Sam’s hair tugging a little to get him to look up again.

Sam obliges, mouth hovering about three millimetres from where Dean really wants it.

-But neither are you, you kinky little freak, Dean tells him. “Go on. Wrap that hand around yourself and suck me.”

Sam does. He goes down, smooth as china silk the whole way, lips picking up the almond oil and Dean’s about to die, seriously. This is like bleeding out from arterial spray, for sure. He’ll be lost in one minute and dead in three just from Sam’s mouth on him, Sam’s oiled hand still stroking the newly shaved skin all around and the way Dean can see Sam jacking himself. It’s all a little too much to handle really. Feels like he’s been on edge for hours.

Sam’s mouth is a wondrous, beautiful thing and there’s hardly enough time to develop any real rhythm before Dean loses it. The build up has been so slow and so drawn out that he’s blindsided by how fast it overtakes him and he’s coming like a heart attack. He’s still shuddering when he crashes into Sam’s space, down onto his knees close up with Sam and slinging an arm around Sam’s neck, getting his hand on Sam’s cock.

Sam’s mouth is still half-open and well used so Dean takes that too, takes over the rhythm, twining their hands together and it’s all slick slide and Sam breathing a curse right into his mouth before rocking forward with a moan that starts as a deep rumble somewhere low in his chest. Skin on skin in the muggy air, the clean good scent of soap and fresh sweat rising between them overlaid with a hint of almonds and Dean’s kissing Sam like he can’t remember how to breathe any other way, tasting all those things too. It’s fucking glorious. It’s probably not even a minute before Sam comes, shuddering and moaning and rocking into Dean so hard he spends over Dean’s clean-shaven skin. Kinky little freak. Dean huffs a laugh and kisses him some more.

They wind up sprawled there for a while, Dean with his back to the wall of the shower stall and Sam leaning against him, back to chest. It’s too hot and close and oddly furtive for them, locked in the bathroom in their locked and warded motel room, but Dean figures they’re about as safe as they’re likely to get these days that way. Sam’s quiet for a bit, fingers idly roving the arm Dean has slung around his chest, then Dean’s calves, a sliver of thigh he can comfortably reach. Dean’s mostly just content. Sticky, oiled up to a slide and … Jesus. Sam’s going to be the death of him in the best possible way.

-You’re going to be so distracted, Sam says and Dean can’t see the roguish grin, but he knows that tone of voice well enough to hear it.  
-Huh?  
-You’re going to be feeling my hands on you all day, the skin so sensitive. Then you’re going to try going commando and it’ll fucking kill you, believe me. Jeans on naked skin? Not something you can ignore. And then you’re going to get stubble and it’s going to itch a little, catch on the material of your boxers and drive you crazy, man.

Dean sits up a little at that and Sam feels it, turns his head and angles it enough that their eyes meet. Dean sees it all there.

-You’ve done this before, Dean says and it’s not really a question.  
-Wouldn’t do anything to you I haven’t done to myself, you know that.

Sam’s eyes are lit and bright and completely without shadow while at the same time he’s looking so fucking wicked right then that Dean kind of has to kiss him. The thought of Sam shaving himself clean is doing bad, bad things to Dean that he’s not even equipped to deal with yet.

-Sammy. Fuck, Dean breathes out when Sam pulls back.  
-And about that? That feels real good too.  
-Yeah?  
-Trust me, Sam says.

And the thing about all this is? Dean does. He’s never been big on the declarative part of this thing between them, but he figures letting a guy take a straight razor to your dick is pretty much as demonstrative as you can get and they both know that.

 

End


End file.
